Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

“I meant no disrespect,” Prosper began, offering no attempt at retaliation. He was smarter than that.

“Too late,” Simeon said, stepping back and allowing him to stand.

“I didn’t want you to worry needlessly,” Prosper explained. “Yes, this is a bit of a glitch, but I’m dealing with it.”

Simeon’s back was to him now as the forever man stood in front of a window boarded up tight to keep the frequent wind and rain from coming inside. “You’re dealing with it,” Simeon repeated with a laugh. “If this is the best you can do I shudder to think of how bad things would be if you weren’t paying attention.”

Prosper bit his tongue, the desire to flaunt his achievements nearly overwhelming. Simeon stood quietly, perfectly rigid, the potential for violence exuding from him in waves.

“Has news of the murder gotten out?” Simeon finally asked.

“No,” Prosper said, climbing swiftly to his feet. “From what I understand it’s still pretty much contained.”

He made his way around to his desk and pulled open a side drawer. There was a good bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses there.

“First things first, there was the matter of the driver,” Prosper said. He held up the bottle and glasses. “Drink?”

“And?” Simeon asked.

“And, I dealt with it,” Prosper said, pouring himself a few fingers of the whiskey.

“And how did you deal with it?”

“I hired somebody . . . a group of somebodies, really,” Prosper said, sipping the golden liquid.

Simeon’s stare said that he wanted more.

“The Black Choir,” Prosper said. “I hired the Black Choir to remove him.”

Simeon’s gaze grew laser-beam focused, and Prosper felt the tingle of sweat beginning to form at the back of his neck.

“A little dramatic just to deal with a driver, don’t you think?”

“The driver and someone else,” Prosper explained, certain that he would not like where the conversation was going. “An outsider.”

“An outsider?” Simeon came closer to his desk.

“Yes,” Prosper said. “One of their own, but not part of the establishment. An investigator of some kind.”

“An investigator,” Simeon said. “You do realize that this isn’t good.”

“Of course I do,” Prosper snapped, and then quickly smiled benignly. “Which is why I took care of it. Which is why I brought in the Choir.”

Simeon’s stare bored into his skull.

“And they’ve been successful, this Black Choir?”

Prosper poured himself another finger. “Partially,” he said, watching the fire again ignite in the forever man’s eyes. “But like I told you, there’s no need for concern,” he continued quickly. “The Choir missed their first crack, but they are still after him. Shouldn’t be long now.”

Prosper brought his drink to his mouth and smiled.

“Seems like the Black Choir has a real hard-on for this guy.” He took a drink and then chuckled.

“I wouldn’t want to be that poor bastard.”

Simeon had started to pace back and forth.

“So you believe once this . . . investigator is removed from the board, things will return to normal?”

Prosper considered the question.

“Maybe not normal, but definitely better,” he said, wincing. “At least we should have enough time to clean things up here, and as far as the angels go, one side will blame the other, and bang. Isn’t that where you wanted all this to end up anyway?”

It looked like a smile had started to crease Simeon’s face, but Prosper couldn’t be sure. For all he knew it could have been a grimace of pain.

“Where I wanted this to end up?” Simeon repeated. “Like you have any idea where it is that I want to be.”

With those words Simeon spun on his heel, heading for the door. But just as he placed his hand upon the knob, he stopped and turned back to face Prosper.

Prosper waited, nervously holding his breath.

“This investigator for the angels who we won’t be worrying about soon,” Simeon said. “He has a name?”

Prosper gasped, air filling his lungs as he nodded.

Simeon raised a hand, gesturing for him to continue.

He racked his brain, trying to recall the name. He’d heard it only once.

And suddenly it was there.

“Remy,” Prosper blurted out with a proud smile. “Remy Chandler.”

Simeon’s expression turned to stone. “Are you certain?”

Prosper nodded. “I remember because of the Choir’s reaction when I told them who their target was. I guess they have a bit of history.”

Simeon stared.

“History,” he repeated, and there was that smile that might not have been a smile again, before he turned away, leaving the office.

Prosper felt his legs go suddenly weak, a trembling passing through them that made it feel as though they had turned to jelly. He dropped into his seat with a heavy sigh.

That could have gone worse, he told himself, reaching for the whiskey with a trembling hand.

Eyes fixed to the door, hoping— praying —that Simeon did not come back.

Dardariel returned alone to his general’s dwelling.

Something had not felt right.

The soldier of Heaven parted his wings in the hallway of the elaborate human mansion, sniffing the air for a hint of his superior.

There was something in the air of this place that tickled his nostrils but eluded his divine senses as soon as it was perceived.

The others that had accompanied him were afraid to follow, afraid to further incur the wrath of the great general. But Dardariel’s concern overruled his fear, leading him back here to this place Aszrus called home.

Dardariel stood in the hallway, awaiting the attentions of the human staff, but none came. Odd, he thought, assuming his human guise and walking the silent halls. He followed his senses, tracking the elusive scent, searching for signs of life, but the grand home was eerily silent.

It wasn’t until he got closer to the spot where he and his fellow soldiers had last encountered the angry general that he finally heard something: the sound of activity, and someone softly crying.

Dardariel strode with purpose down the corridor and turned the corner to General Azrus’ study. The angel paused, listening to the sounds of sorrow, and what could only be the bristles of a brush moving across fabric from behind the closed doors.

One of the doors to the study was opened a crack, and the angel was drawn to it, as if some invisible force had hooked him and was effortlessly reeling him in. He passed through the doorway and immediately felt his flesh begin to tingle, as if assailed by something that had once been there—something to deter his presence. The powerful aroma of cleaning products assaulted his complex sense of smell.

But it was what lay beneath the noxious, soapy smell that birthed his ire.

A female member of the house staff—Dardariel wasn’t sure if this was the one they had encountered earlier, for all the hairless monkeys looked the same to him—was on her hands and knees, a bucket of foaming liquid by her side. She was scrubbing at a dark stain in the middle of the carpet.

A dark stain that gave off a smell that caused Dardariel’s every sense to cry out in protest.

It was the smell of blood. The smell of blood rich with the stink of violence.

“What is this?” the angel demanded, no longer holding on to his human visage. Dardariel was suddenly armored, his brown and black spotted wings fanning outward as he set upon the sobbing woman.

She froze, turning her blind eyes toward the booming sound of the angel’s voice.

“Please . . .” was all she could manage before his hands closed about her throat, and he hurled her across the study.